


5.23 Hours

by roughmagic



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Feel-good, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Reader-Insert, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a lot of ways, you feel like he’d kind of written you off the instant he had ballooned you out of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5.23 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Straight up, I have never played a MGS game before Phantom Pain, a lot of what I know is through fandom osmosis and aggressive summary reading, plus that one hiimdaisy comic-- I'm trying to explain but not excuse any glaring inaccuracies. :( I'm really enjoying MGSV, despite being bad at it, and I just wanted to write something to kind of reflect that. I hope that feeling comes through!

It turns out that Seychelles isn’t somewhere in France, and is in fact somewhere in East Africa. You might have passed over it at one point and not even known, and you can’t even claim to have seen it, or been there. Not really. All you’ve seen for two weeks has been ocean. It could be anywhere, no land in sight. Just blue. Nowhere for you to go, if you had anywhere _to_ go. 

You like the base okay, it’s obviously a professional military place that you have utterly no experience with, and it clearly doesn’t need you. Your hands feel dry all the time from helping wash dishes and do food prep in the mess, and occasionally there are errands to run between departments that you can do. It’s embarrassing, but not quite as embarrassing as the news that your family wouldn’t pay your ransom. 

That thought drives you out of your bunk, fumbling through the dark until you get to the door. The metal bulkhead under your feet is cool, but it isn’t cold until you get outside. Even then, it’s not so bad. It never gets really cold here, so the base is never really freezing. You wrap your arms around yourself anyway, aware that your pajamas are just extra clothes that are too big for you. 

There are recruits on watch at all the important parts, men occasionally smoking under orange lights or chatting in low tones that bounce off the bulkheads. In bare feet, you’re quiet enough to sneak anywhere you want, sticking to the shadows and trying not to consider how easy it would be to mistake you for some kind of tiny intruder. 

Ducking under a construction sign, you make it to the edge of the platform, leaning against the railing and looking down. You’ve seen it in the daytime and you know how long it is to the water, but it looks twice as far at night. Darkness, and the glint of lights off the water. You hook a leg around one of the railing’s posts before you sit down, dangling your feet off the edge and feeling the air whip around your bare ankles, heavy and salty. 

Ocelot gave you the news very discreetly after dinner, and you appreciate him not making it into a big deal. Getting written off for dead is an interesting and complex feeling made more complicated by the fact that you’re sure these guys, these Diamond Dogs, had been interested in your rescue for the money. It puts an expiration date on their hospitality, you know it. They’re mercenaries. They don’t keep floaters on for free. You had peeked into some records and found out how much just one of those balloon extractions was, you owed them that much menial labor at the very least. 

You’re sure the Boss will find out, because he’s the Boss, but you can’t imagine him giving much of a shit. In a lot of ways, you feel like he’d kind of written you off the instant he had ballooned you out of danger. 

Looking up, there are more stars than you’ve seen in a long time. Not a lot of light pollution, out in the middle of the ocean. And the base is big, but it’s not that big. Yet, anyway. There’s always construction going on. Leaning your cheek against the railing, you close your eyes for a moment and try to imagine what it would feel like to let yourself call this place home. 

“Careful you don’t fall off.”

You almost do, out of fright, but there’s the chilly railing to keep you in place as you grip tightly to it and look up, less surprised and more mortified to see that, of course, it’s the Boss. 

“B-Boss!” You smack your fingertips on the chilly railing in a hurry to grab it and hoist yourself up, suddenly aware that you’re out of bounds, out of uniform, and loafing to the highest degree. “I was— that is—" 

He doesn’t take his eye off the horizon, cigar smoke pluming out smoothly through the breeze. It’s hard to tell if he’s happy or angry, or something else all together. “At ease.”

You freeze, halfway to pulling yourself up by the railing, and gingerly risk lowering yourself back to sit on the deck. You’ve seen him throw recruits over his shoulder and the weird, glowing joy that results from it, and you think you halfway understand. You wouldn’t mind if he tossed you overboard, honestly. It’d make where you stood very clear. 

You want to look at him again, all you got was an impression. The cigar, the gear, the eyepatch. But it would mean staring, and there’s no way he wouldn’t notice. This is his house, you’re a guest.

It’s only when he speaks again that you realize you hadn’t answered him, and almost put your face in your hands out of despair. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Oh! You aren’t, I’m just… technically not supposed to be out here.” Beyond Ocelot telling you not to play near the railings (are you a child? to him, maybe) he had made it pretty clear that construction zones were off limits to everyone not doing constructing. And you certainly aren’t. 

“Hm.” The cigar’s orange coal glows briefly. “I won’t tell.”

“Thanks. Uh, sir.”

“Ocelot’s not sending you home, then?”

You feel a hot flush of shame creeping around your neck and ears. What a shameful thing, to be here, taking up space and to have no idea if anyone wants you here. You want to answer him, to say anything, but there’s nothing behind your teeth besides _There’s not really much of a home left,_ and you can’t bring yourself so close to complaining. Not to him. 

His gear squeaks a little as his shifts his weight. The wind curls around in a different direction and you can smell his cigar clearly, exotic and heady. “There are worse places to be.”

“I like it, I just… I don’t know how much use I’ll be.”

“We’ll find something for you to do.” 

He says it so _easily,_ and it’s so tempting to put your faith into it. Into him. There’s a stability, a certainty, that knits every single person to Mother Base and you’ve just been looking in at it but you get it now. The Boss has told you there’s a place for you, and so there is. You chalk the thickness in your throat and the blurriness biting at your view of the ocean up to the salty air. “Thank you, sir.”

There’s a pleasant silence, the static of the waves punctuated by the normal sounds of the base. You risk glancing up at him and find him leaning against the railing, looking tired. There’s something about him that makes you feel like he might be letting himself drift a long ways off. “Are you sleeping okay, Boss?”

“I’m getting too old for that.” He seems to think over his own answer, before looking down at you and chasing your own gaze back out to the seamless horizon. “What’s your excuse?”

“I have one, it’s just a little pathetic.”

“Try me.” You look up again, and then across at him as he sits down next to you, boots hanging off the platform’s edge. Your incredulity must show, because he arches an eyebrow. 

You look back out at the ocean, then at your feet next to his. His boots are big, pale mud clinging to the undersides and dust caking the laces. “It’s the way things sound, out here. Even on a beach, there are sounds from birds or insects on the dunes… out here, it’s so quiet. In the rooms, sometimes you can’t even hear the waves.” 

The Boss grunts in thoughtful approval, and you have the lightheaded feeling you’ve never felt quite as proud as you do now. “That’s good thinking.”

“Not much you can do about it, I guess, but I hope just knowing what’s off can make it a bit more bearable.” You feel like you’re whining, so you rush to follow it up. “I asked around and some of the other guys say the same thing, that it takes a long time to wear off.”

“Kaz calls that ‘a quality of life concern.’” He doesn’t say it with disdain, just a weary sort of acceptance. 

You hear the watch change whistle and start out of reflex, scrambling upright and jumping at this chance to escape before you start crying or spilling your guts on him. You’re at a loss for how to end this strange, personal interaction without being rude, but without being sappy. You try to think what another recruit would do, one who was useful in a normal way, and try to mimic their salute and ramrod posture. “Thanks for hanging out with me, Boss! I know I’ll be able to sleep soundly now!”

“I’m that boring?”

“Oh— no, I didn’t mean—"

“I know. Get going.”

 

Politely, Ocelot says he doesn’t need a personal assistant, but he still gets more done with you around. Both of you know you aren’t going to win anyone glory on the battlefield, but he’s either too kind or too embarrassed for you to rub it in.

At first you’re worried that following him around so often might make you look like a stooge to the other recruits, but they seem to know you’re just trying to find a niche to be useful in. It might help that you’re so much smaller and harmless looking in comparison to everyone else on the damn rig. Everyone’s little sibling. Even the dog is tougher.

You don’t mind. Filing database entries and keeping track of an impossibly changing schedule keep you busy during the daylight hours, basic physical training during the quiet night hours when the gyms are emptier tire you out, and you can get a few hours of weak, thin sleep in. 

The flat blue horizon stops distracting you, and you focus on the daily life of the base. You think deeply on the idea that you belong to something unique and intense, out here in the middle of nowhere. You spend a lot of time wondering how long you should wait until you can put in a requisitions order for a bathing suit without seeming awkward. You find things to daydream about, because the alternative is boredom and frustration. 

You make friends with some of the recruits. They’re always happy to teach you something, and they all know you have a lot to learn. You collect an extensive vocabulary of Russian profanities in record time, you learn what gossip to pass on and what to keep to yourself, and they like seeing how many of their rifles you can hold at one time before tapping out. They all have stories about the Boss, every single one. Some of them are fanciful and some of them are awful. You only ever tell the one where he Fultons you out of danger. You keep the cold railing and the smell of his cigar and his boots over the edge to yourself. 

It’s bewildering how a whole community of people can miss a single man so collectively, but it’s nice to always have something in common. You’re almost ready to let go of the sharp-edged pining and try to throw yourself into your work, but it feels like admitting defeat, or forgetting something important. 

You’re reading horoscopes for the guys in the mess hall over breakfast and you just got to Virgo when an arm loops around your neck and the paper falls out of your hands slowly as you watch surprise spread on the faces in front of you. Pressure makes you wheeze as you’re dragged back and out of your seat and the thought strikes you that you’re going to die, and that would probably mean more paperwork for Ocelot. 

All the basic training fails to fall into place, but you’re wriggly and get in a few good kicks to the shin and one almost acceptable elbow back that hurts you probably more than it hurts him, but incredibly it works and you leap free, so startled by the pleased laughter of the other recruits that you don’t immediately think to look for a weapon. 

It’s the Boss, of course, and he doesn’t smile but definitely ruffles your hair and tells you gruffly that _It’s a tradition, for new guys,_ and you feel like cheering too, even though you’re tearing up from leftover fear and relief. 

Ocelot hears you resorted to trying to kick his shins to free yourself and assigns you more training.

 

There’s a lot of coming and going from the base, so you never know when the Boss is there or not for sure, but just having seen him lingers for days, even beyond the smell of his cigar. The Boss was home! Work feels meaningful and interesting, there’s more to talk about, the sky looks brighter and bluer. DD doesn’t howl as much during the night. Life is refreshed. 

The eggshell layer of difference between you and everyone else is gone, even though he didn’t suplex you properly or anything. It doesn’t mean very much is different, just that Ocelot doesn’t treat you so gingerly when you mess up, and the lads don’t try to pretend they’re not a bunch of boys farting around during their off hours. But you don’t long for things quite as much, you feel content with what’s in front of you. There’s the base, and the nebulous world outside, beyond the ocean. 

Routine is dangerous and promotes bad habits, so you don’t settle down into anything too much. The only constant is laying in your bunk until you fall asleep at the end of the day, more out of defeat than an attempt at rest. You get so used to it that you feel like you almost deserve the one time a plastic case smacks you in the face as your head lands on the pillow. 

Reaching and pawing for the bedside lamp, when you turn it on to look at the case, you’re surprised it’s a cassette. You have a cassette player, it’s standard issue, but you didn’t use it much except for transcribing notes. You hope it’s not a mix tape of love songs from one of the boys, but there’s nothing written on the label. 

Quickly, you check the door to make sure it’s securely sealed, and hope that there’s no way a bomb of damaging size could be hidden in a cassette tape. Then again, you’ve been to the R&D lab. Anything’s possible these days. 

Loading the tape in, you debate over headphones for a moment before reaching for those too. The lamp gets snapped off, and you lay back in your bunk, staring up at darkness and waiting for nothing. It’s easier if you close your eyes, so you do. 

You shut your eyes and press play. The faint rhythmic churning of a departing helicopter is tapering off at the start, and you strain for a moment to focus on what you’re supposed to be hearing, when what it is that you are hearing becomes clear. 

The faint jingling of horse tack, punctuated by soft snorts you can almost feel, puffing at your cheek or hands. Hooves on loose, crunchy gravel, quiet footsteps too. The Boss’s gentle, wordless greeting and soothing of D-Horse sends something crawling across your skin in a hot rush and you’re almost glad when you hear the reins clap, and the brisk trot away from the recorder. 

The silence of the desert seeps in slowly, welling up in the soft drone of nighttime insects. Wind catches on the mic every so often, softly blotting at everything but not enough to crackle. The same gust whistles off sharp rock edges in the distance. 

You feel like you can imagine the ravine where the Boss must’ve left the recorder. Rocky cliffs hemming in a quiet spot, warmed by the sun all day but fast to cool down at night, pale under a tired, deep blue sky. Dry grasses whispering against each other. 

Reluctantly, you crack open your eyes to check the tape’s length. Almost five and a half hours of silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
